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Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson. HOPE is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm.

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Emily Dickinson

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  1. Emily Dickinson HOPE is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I ’ve heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me. http://www.bartleby.com/113/1032.html

  2. E. E. Cummings Picasso you give us Things which bulge: grunting lungs pumped full of sharp thick mind you make us shrill presents always shut in the sumptuous screech of simplicity (out of the black unbunged Something gushes vaguely a squeak of planes or between squeals of Nothing grabbed with circular shrieking tightness solid screams whisper.) Lumberman of The Distinct your brain's axe only chops hugest inherent Trees of Ego,from whose living and biggest bodies lopped of every prettiness you hew form truly http://hellopoetry.com/poem/picasso/ Picasso – Weeping Woman http://www.pablo-ruiz-picasso.net/work-173.php

  3. Langston Hughes Ardella I would liken you To a night without stars Were it not for your eyes. I would liken you To a sleep without dreams Were it not for your songs http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ardella/

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